


Κασσάνδρα

by masonverger_rising



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: D/s, F/M, Post S2, Trans Male Character, Trans Will Graham, alana bloom is not taking anyone's shit anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:52:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonverger_rising/pseuds/masonverger_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sit," she says it calmly and Will drops onto the edge of his bed, feels the springs creak under his weight, "I am done with being ignored,” she stands a few feet in front of Will, looking down at him and takes another drag on the cigar, “I have tried being kind, and I have tried being adult and I am done watching people I care about throwing their lives away because they don’t want to listen.”</p><p>Alana is not going to stand by and watch people she cares about ignore her warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mister13eyond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister13eyond/gifts).



> inspired by that picture of caroline smoking a cigar

Will itches at the bandages around his middle, considers for a moment going to change the dressing, but he’s already going to be borderline late — and with his record he’s certain that he’ll be stopped by airport security for  _something_.

He can change the bandages in the airport bathroom — on the plane if need be. He fumbles the file he’s been putting together into his satchel, he already has a toiletry bag put together from the stay in the hospital, enough testosterone to see him through two months and a wad of cash that he’s been saving under his mattress for a rainy day.

He can get that changed at the airport too. Euros make everything so much easier to deal with, since he’s narrowed his search down to either France or Italy. It would be a bastard of a time if he had to deal with currency changes halfway through a chase.

Will turns to go back to his dresser, to toss a bundle of underwear into his suitcase and stops in his tracks — there is a human-shaped shadow sitting in one of his chairs, limned by the moonlight streaming through the wide window.

A match sparks, and for a second he thinks his search is over before it’s begun, that after  _everything_  Hannibal has come back to finish it here, in Will’s little house.

Alana lights her cigar and shakes the match out. Her eyes glitter as she watches Will in silence for a long handful of moments, and then she stands, exhaling a fragrant cloud and seeming to fill up the whole room, the whole  _house_  with her presence.

"I was just—" the explanation dies in Will’s throat, it’s patently obvious what he was planning to do, even with his half-healed gut wound, even without having had any real time to heal beyond the most superficially physical.

"I don’t care," Alana’s voice is as warm as it has ever been but there is an edge to her now that reminds Will of the steel pins he’d seen when he’d visited her in hospital, of the scaffolding that still holds her bones together, the raw scars that criss-cross her skin, her constant reminder of what Hannibal has done to them — to her.

"I was—" Will drops his bag, shoves it aside with his heel, like he could hide it from her, think of some other explanation than that he was going to go chasing after Hannibal Lecter, the human disaster.

"Sit," she says it calmly and Will drops onto the edge of his bed, feels the springs creak under his weight, "I am  _done_  with being ignored,” she stands a few feet in front of Will, looking down at him and takes another drag on the cigar, “I have tried being kind, and I have tried being adult and I am  _done_ watching people I care about throwing their lives away because they don’t want to  _listen_.”

"I’m listening, Alana, I just—"

"No, Will," she doesn’t raise her voice but there is a power there, low and absolute, "no  _I just_ , nothing. Stop talking.”


	2. Bandage

"You’re not the only one that Hannibal mistreated, Will," Alana raises her hand sharply to cut off his retort, "and you’re not the only one who missed what he was doing … who he was."

"But  _I was_  the one who was supposed to —  _ow!_ ”

Alana squeezes Will’s earlobe, pressing her thumbnail firmly into the sensitive flesh until he stops squirming and looks up at her from under his brows.

"We all missed it, Will," she says softly, she strokes his cheek and lowers her hand to rest against his shoulder, the cigar glows warm in her other hand, surrounding them with ribbons of smoke, "if you’re going to blame yourself you should blame the rest of us just as much."

"It wasn’t your  _job_  to—”

"It wasn’t  _yours_  either, Will. You were a teacher. There was  _no_  call to put you in the line of fire like that.”

"Jack was only doing what he thought was nec—"

"Do you blame Beverly Katz as much as you blame yourself?"

“ _Alana, no_  you can’t just—”

"Beverly was just as responsible for finding the Chesapeake Ripper as you were — more so. It was  _actually_  in her job description.”

Will tries to stand but Alana keeps her hand on his shoulder, pressing him down. He winces, raises his hand to cover his belly for a moment.

"Is that hurting you?"

"It’s fine."

Alana steps back, looking at Will’s pale face in the weak light from the kitchen door, “When was the last time you changed your bandage?”

Will opens and closes his mouth, trying to think back, to fix on the exact time — he’d done it that morning, some time. Hadn’t he?

"Come on," Alana puts her hand on his shoulder again, "Will you  _have_  to take care of yourself.”

"It’s fine, Alana," he shakes his head, he’s thinking of the airport still, that if he leaves now, right this second he could still make it, "I’ll take care of it."

"I’d like to think that I could trust you on that, Will," Alana looks sad, lines etched either side of her mouth, she tucks the cigar between her teeth and steers Will toward the bathroom with both hands.

His head droops and he feels a rush of something like embarrassment come over him, “It’s nothing to worry about,” his voice sounds a little choked and his eyes sting and he tells himself it’s just the smoke.

"It worries me that you think that," she snaps the bathroom light on and it shows the two of them in the cabinet mirror, looking wan and washed out, still sickly, "shirt off, let me see how it is."

"No, Alana, really it’s fine," he’s putting his foot down, now, there are lines that no-one needs to cross and he’s an adult, after all, he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"Do you think if you let this kill you he’ll come back?"

Will peels his shirt off silently and helps Alana unwind the bandages. He doesn’t flinch when she looks over his scars, either the old or the new.


	3. Crawl

The dogs mill and whine in the living room, a flurry of wagging tails and twitching noses. Alana leads Will back into the room and frowns. She has told him to leave his shirt off — he won’t need it tonight.

"Were you just going to leave them here alone?" She knows that he wouldn’t, that there are undoubtedly arrangements already made for them, but Alana also knows how badly off Will’s pack is without him. And how poorly he does without them.

"I asked the neighbour to feed them and walk them," Will shifts uncomfortably, leans down to pet Winston behind the ears. Winston’s tail thumps against the floor.

"And that’s all? For how long, Will? Weeks? Months? Abandoning them, ignoring your own health to chase after Hannibal? Explain to me how you can justify that, Will," Alana’s voice is low and sad and there is a hint of gravel in her tone.

"Listen, Alana, you know — I could stop him, I could stop him from hurting anyone else, save people."

The dogs move closer, crowding around Will’s legs, whining and licking at the knees of his jeans, the toes of his boots.

Alana sticks the cigar between her teeth again and ushers the dogs out. She had always had trouble controlling them, corralling them, but tonight they listen and obey. The room is quiet without the clacking of their toenails on the floor, their panting, their whines and yips.

"Saving people," she stands in front of Will, places her hands on his shoulders and lets him duck his head to avoid looking her in the eyes, "how do you think you could stop him when you can’t even save yourself? This isn’t a noble quest, Will, this isn’t you riding over the horizon to slay a monster. This is revenge … or retribution—"

"A  _reckoning_ ,” Will meets her eyes without flinching.

"But whose reckoning? His?" Alana presses his shoulders and Will sinks to his knees in front of her, "or yours?"

Alana twines one hand through Will’s hair, he leans forward, his weight resting on his hands and presses his cheek against her thigh, eyes closed. She looks down at the width of his shoulders, at the long, smooth curve of his spine to where it disappears under the bandages. In the semi-dark he looks like solid shadow.

"It’s easy to dress self destruction up as nobility," her fingers tighten and she pulls Will’s head back so that the cords in his neck stand out, so that his back arches, "do you want to martyr yourself for Hannibal Lecter? Do you want to feed his vanity with your life, Will?"

He doesn’t reply, just grits his teeth, his eyes narrowed. Alana shifts so that he can rest on all fours again. She lifts her foot and places it on his lower back, pushing him against the floor.

"Is this some elaborate self-flagellation? Do you feel that you need to be punished?"

Will hangs his head, the back of his neck is stark white beside the darkness of his hair. Alana’s heel is hard at the small of his back, he can picture the shine of her black pumps, the way his flesh must dimple under her weight and he moans, his hips are pressed hard against the floorboards and the wound in his belly stretches, pangs.

Alana shifts her weight, hooks her toe under Will’s hip bone and turns him onto his back, presses the toe of her shoe hard against the front of Will’s jeans and steps down until he whimpers.

"Or are you just thinking with this?"


	4. Beg

Will squirms under Alana’s shoe, his knees draw up and his heels scrape against the floor and a sound like a wounded animal emerges from him. _Do you want to be punished?_  The question makes his gut turn over and his cock throb under Alana’s toes.

"It’s not — no, I just…" Will smooths one hand over the bandage on his belly and electricity zings through him.

Alana watches him, her eyes darkly shining, the cigar fixed between her teeth and glowing, “It is,” she says it with cool certainty, “but is that how you think it works, Will? You don’t get to choose your punishment, you don’t get to turn it into your own private martyrdom.”

He watches her, his breath catching in the back of his throat. He gasps when she lifts her foot off him, one hand reaching down to hold himself, hard in his jeans, rubbing against the seams even through his boxers. Alana pushes his hand away with her toe, but she doesn’t touch him again.

"Do you want to be punished, Will?"

He turns a deep pink, his ears burning, he wets his lips and tries to drag his eyes away from her, away from the bright end of the cigar but he can’t, he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and nods, a sharp jerk of his head.

"I asked a question, Will," Alana pauses and he feels gooseflesh break out up his arms and across his chest, his nipples pinched and hard, "do you want to be punished?"

He nods again and his face burns and now she snaps at him, her voice hard-edged, “I want to  _hear_  you when I ask a question — do you want to be punished?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he shifts and tries to curl in on himself, his hand comes up to try and cover his mouth and Alana can see tears shining in his eyes, “yes, please, please,” his breath hitches and for a moment she thinks he might break down.

Thoughts about the possible therapeutic value of this sort of interaction flits through her mind but she dismisses it with some effort — to be present in the moment is the most important thing. Control is important and that means  _self_  control. No getting lost in analysis, no overthinking. Listening, acting, reacting.

“ _Please_ ,” his breath is ragged and she can see his chest rising and falling sharply, can see his heartbeat thrumming at his throat, “please do it, please.”

"Do what?" she isn’t being facetious though she can tell from the momentary flash of fear that crosses his face that for a second he thinks she is mocking him, "you must be specific, Will. That’s how it has to be."

"P-" he takes a sobbing breath, "p-punish me, hurt me, please, I—" he struggles to form words, gasping for air and she watches him, shushes him.

"Yes," she says, "that’s good," she would bend over but the pins in her back and sides make that hurt, she would reach down to help him up but then the pair of them would be on the floor and nothing would be resolved, "on your feet," she says and it’s an  _order_.

Will is shaking when he stands, and he shuffles his feet until she gestures for him to be still. She has him take off his shoes and go back to the bed, lie down flat on his back and he tracks her with his eyes, wondering what comes next — _doubting_  after all this is  _Alana Bloom_  what could she possibly do?

But there’s that dark shine to her eyes and the fact that she’s here at all and Will can’t rule out anything as beyond her.

"You were used," she says, her hand comes down to rest on his breast bone, her thumb on the very end of his top scar, the heel of her hand touching the bandages on his belly, "you’ve been used and chewed up and dragged about by so many people," she is thinking of Hannibal, yes.

But also of Jack, of Kade Prurnell who just wanted a scapegoat, someone to make all the Bureau’s problems go away, Freddie Lounds who wanted sensationalism, Doctor Chilton who wanted a show pony, everyone all trying to grab their piece, never mind the man slowly going to pieces in front of them.

Will nods minutely, watching her, watching the glow of the cigar between her fingers, the grey ash dimming the ember. Alana follows his eyes and knows what to do.

"Open," she says and he only licks his lips; she pinches his nipple and he opens his mouth wide, his jaw creaking, lips stretched and shiny with spit.

"You want me to hurt you?" she ashes the cigar in his mouth, listening to the tiny choking sounds Will makes as the dust falls against the back of his mouth, irritates his throat, the acrid taste filling burning across his tongue and the burning itself.

His eyes shine with unshed tears and he nods, his mouth still wide open.

Alana takes one last, long drag on the cigar, the smoke wreaths around her head when she exhales and then she turns it over in her fingertips, extinguishes it against the sweat-damp skin of Will’s chest, right over his racing heart. Their eyes meet as they both hear his skin sizzle and then Will bucks at the pain, his eyes squeezing shut, one hand coming up to rest protectively on his belly.


End file.
